This phenomenon is caused by the half million of blazing coal-fires in the metropolis, contributing a vast quantity of fuliginous matter, which, mingling with the vapor, partly arising from imperfect drainage, produces that foggy darkness, which Londoners not inaptly term "awful." Sometimes it is of a bottle-green color; but if the barometer rise, it will either totally disappear, or change into a white mist; at other times it is of a pea-soup yellow; in the midst of which the street gas-lights appear like the pin-head lamps of old. The latter is the genuine "London Fog." First at the dawn of lingering day, It rises of an ashy gray; Then, deepening with a sordid stain Of yellow, like a lion's mane. Vapor, importunate and dense. The ears escape not. All around Returns a dull, unwonted sound. Loath to stand still, afraid to stir, The chilled and puzzled passenger, Oft blundering from the pavement, fails To feel his way along the rails; Or at the crossing, in the roll Of every carriage, dreads the poll. Scarce an eclipse with pall so dun, Blots from the face of heaven the sun. But soon a thicker, darker cloak Wraps all the town, behold, in smoke, Which steam-compelling trade disgorges From all her furnaces and forges, In pitchy clouds too dense to rise, Descend, rejected from the skies; Till struggling day, extinguished quite, At noon gives place to candle-light.

HENRY LUTTRELL.

The fog, too, sensibly affects the organs of respiration: hence a Scotch physician has asked, "If a person require half a gallon of pure air per minute, how many gallons of this foul atmosphere must be, as it were, filtered by his lungs in the course of a day?"

Sometimes the fog is caused by a very ordinary accident-a change of wind, thus accounted for: the west wind carries the smoke of the town eastward in a long train, extending twenty or thirty miles from the town-say from Harrow-on-theHill. In this place, suppose the wind to change suddenly to the east, the great body of smoke will be brought back in an accumulated mass; and as this repasses the town, augmented by the clouds of smoke from every fire therein, it causes its murky darkness.

By accurate observation of the height of the fog, relatively with the higher edifices, whose elevation

is known, it has been ascertained that the fogs of London never rise more than from 200 to 240 feet above the same level. Hence, the air of the more for its pure and invigorating qualities, being placed elevated environs of the metropolis is celebrated above the fogs of the plain, and removed from smoky and contaminated atmosphere. The height of the Norwood Hills, for example, is 390 feet above the sea level at low water; and thus enjoys pre-eminent salubrity.

As curiosities of London next to the fog, we think we may class the birds, they are certainly a distinct race from the genuine country birds; and it is amusing in the spring to see, as we have often seen, the pavement on the south side of Cheapside, opposite Wood Street, almost blocked up with curious Cockneys, watching the rooks on the trees opposite, while building their nests. The following is Mr. Timbs' article on the "Birds of London:"

Birds, for the most part, avoid cities and large towns; but there have been some remarkable exceptions to this rule noted in the metropolis by careful observers.

The house-sparrow is to be seen in nearly every locality. In 1850 there was a numerous colony of sparrows upon the west side of the court-yard of No. 94 Piccadilly, the residence of the Duke of Cambridge. Another resting-place for sparrows was the capitals of the Corinthian columns of the portico of Carlton House.

There was, too, a noted rookery in the lofty trees of the grounds of Carlton House: on these being cut down, the birds removed, in 1827, to some trees in the rear of New Street, Spring Gardens. Perchance, few remember the satirical la ment of Tom Hudson's song: "Now the old rooks have lost their places." Rooks build in the south church-yard of St. Dunstan-in-the-East, Tower Street. The rookery, before the last church was removed, consisted of upwards of twenty nests; and they were annually supplied with osier-twigs, and other materials for building. The colony migrated to the Tower of London, when disturbed for the pulling down of the church, in 1817; they built in the White Tower, but returned as soon as the noise of axes and hammers had ceased. In 1849, their building materials were hospitably provided for them by Mr. Crutchly, the assistantoverseer: the trees are plane. There was also, formerly, a rookery on some large elm-trees in the College Garden, behind the Ecclesiastical Court, in Doctor's Commons. There is, too, a rookery in the fine trees near Kensington Palace.

"We have rooks in the very heart of London, on a noble plane-tree which grows at the corner of Wood Street, Cheapside. There are now (May, 1850) signs of four nests in that tree; but I am unable to say whether they have reared their young in that locality. Rooks, however, build in the crowns surmounting the highest pinnacles of the turrets of the Tower of London; and there is another rookery in Gray's Inn Gardens. Pigeons

have lately taken to build on the tops of the pillars | of the Bank of England and the Royal Exchange; so that London can now boast of three kinds of birds which rear their young, viz., sparrows, pigeons and rooks. We have every year a robin or two at Finsbury Circus, but it does not build; and we are frequently favored with a visit from starlings."-(Instinct and Reason, by A. Smee, F.R.S., 1850.)

The swallow, swift, and martin, seem to have almost deserted London, although they are occasionally seen in the suburbs. The scarcity of the swallow is referred to most of the chimneys having conical or other contracted tops to them, which is no inducement for this bird to build in them. In 1826, Mr. Jennings observed martins' nests in Goswell Street Road, and on Islington Green.

The redbreast has been occasionally seen in the neighborhood of Fleet Market and Ludgate Hill: in November, 1825, Mr. Jennings saw it in the City Road; where, in November, 1826, he saw the wren.

The thrush is often heard in the Regent's Park. Some of the migratory birds approach much nearer London than is generally imagined. The cuckoo and wood-pigeon are heard occasionally in Kensington Gardens. The nightingale is often heard at Hornsey Wood House, Hackney, and Mile End. (See Jenning's Ornithologia, 1829.)

The London gardens are much more injured by insects than those in the country, on account of the smaller number of insectivorous birds, the great number of bird-catchers, and, in some respects, the cats, in and about the metropolis; and their scarcity is not, as is frequently alleged, owing to the smoke, the number of houses, the want of trees and food, because every kind of bird will live and thrive in cages in the heart of London.

In James Street, on the north side of Covent Garden, a bird market was formerly held on Sunday mornings.

The canary is much reared in the metropolis; there are societies for this purpose, the principal being the Friendly, the Royal, the Amateurs, and the Hand-in-hand. Several varieties are distinguished; and there is a "London Criterion, of a Perfect Canary." The fancy hold their principal shows in November and December, at the Gray's Inn Coffee House, Holborn, and the British Coffee House, Cockspur Street.

The above extract shows how carefully and industriously our author has gathered together facts of all kinds, having any relation to his subject. Our next extract is a very concise account of the Cato Street Conspiracy.

In 1820, at Cato Street, John Street, Edgeware Road, Arthur Thistlewood, and his fellow-conspirators, met to assassinate the ministers assembled at a cabinet dinner, on February 23d, at Lord Harrowby's, 39 Grosvenor Square, where Thistlewood proposed as a "rare hawl, to murder them all together." Some of the conspirators were to watch Lord Harrowby's house; one was to call and deliver a dispatch-box at the door; the others were then to rush in and murder the minis

ters as they sat at dinner; and, as special trophies, to bring away with them the heads of Lords Sidmouth and Castlereagh, in two bags provided for that purpose! They were then to fire the cavalry barracks; and the Bank and Tower were to be taken by the people, who, it was hoped, would rise upon the spread of the news. This diabolical plot was, however, revealed to the ministers by one Edwards, who had joined the conspirators for that purpose. Still, no notice was apparently taken. The preparations for dinner went on at Lord Harrowby's till eight o'clock in the evening; but the guests did not arrive. The Archbishop of York, who lived next door, happened to give a dinner-party at the same hour, and the arrival of the carriages deceived those of the conspirators who were on the watch in the street, till it was too late to give warning to their comrades, who had assembled at Cato Street, in a loft over a stable, accessible only by a ladder. Here, while the traitors were arming themselves, by the light of one or two candles, a party of Bow Street officers entered the stable; when Smithers, the first of them who mounted the ladder, and attempted to seize Thistlewood, was run by him through the body, and instantly fell; whilst, the lights being extinguished, a few shots were exchanged in the darkness and confusion; and Thistlewood and several of his companions escaped through a window at the back of the premises; nine were taken that evening with their arms and ammunition, and the intelligence conveyed to the ministers, who, having dined at home, met at Lord Liverpool's to await the result of what the Bow Street officers had done. A reward of £1,000 was immediately offered for the apprehension of Thistlewood; but he was captured before eight o'clock next morning, while in bed at a friend's house, No. 8 White Street, Little Moorfields. The conspirators were sent to the Tower, and were the last persons imprisoned in that fortress. On April 20th, Thistlewood was condemned to death, after three days' trial; and on May 1st, he and his four principal accomplices, Ings, Brunt, Tidd, and Davidson, who had been severally tried and convicted, were hanged at the Old Bailey, and their heads cut off. Southey relates this touching anecdote of Thistlewood's last hours :

"When the desperate and atrocious traitor, Thistlewood, was on the scaffold, his demeanor the fate he had deserved; in the few words which was that of a man who was boldly resolved to meet were exchanged between him and his fellow-criminals, he observed, that the grand question whether or not the soul was immortal would soon be solved for them. No expression of hope escaped him; no breathing of repentance, no spark of grace appeared. Yet (it is a fact which, whether it be more consolatory or awful, ought to be known), on the night after the sentence, and preceding his execution, while he supposed that the person who was appointed to watch him in his cell was asleep, this miserable man was seen by that person repeatedly to rise upon his knees, and heard repeatedly calling upon Christ his Saviour to have mercy upon him, and to forgive him his sins."-The Doctor, chap. 71.

The selection of Calo Street for the conspirators' meeting was accidental; and the street itself is associated but indirectly in name with the Roman patriot and philosopher. To efface recollection of the conspiracy of the low and desperate politicians of 1820, Cato Street has been changed to Homer Street.

This occupies about one page out of the 800, of which the book consists, and we think it is a very good specimen of the way in which Mr. Timbs treats such subjects. He wastes little space and few words, but at the same time leaves out nothing of importance. We should like to have extracted something from the article on "Frosts and Frost Fairs," at page 315, but our space will not permit, although after the late severe winter, the subject is one of more than ordinary interest; we can, however, conscientiously recommend it to our readers' attention, as containing much valuable and curious information in a very limited space.

On the subject of churches there is, of course, a great deal to be said. One or two little extracts will, we think, gratify our readers, and may, perhaps, be novel to them; for instance, at page 161, we learn that

Pendleton, the celebrated vicar of Bray, known by his multiversations, subsequently became rector of St. Stephen's, Walbrook. It is related that in the reign of Edward VI., Lawrence Sanders, the martyr, an honest, but mild, timorous man, stated to Pendleton his fears that he had not strength of mind to endure the persecution of the times; and was answered by Pendleton that "he would sce every drop of his fat and the last morsel of his flesh consumed to ashes ere he would swerve from the faith then established." He, however, changed with the times, saved his fat and his flesh, and became rector of St. Stephen's, whilst the mild and diffident Sanders was burnt in Smithfield.

Most of our readers know that the present rector is a man of a very different stamp, the Rev. George Croly, "the eloquent poet and imaginative prose writer."

There is no room to quote epitaphs, or Mr. Timbs might have given us the following from St. Anthony's, in Budge Row, which we cannot help quoting, and we trust our readers will forgive us, for the sake of its quality:

Here lieth graven, under this stone,
Thomas Knowl's, both flesh and bone,
Grocer and Alderman, years forty,
Sheriff, and twice Mayor, truly;
And that he should not lie alone,
Here lieth with him his good wife Joan,
They lived together sixty year,

And nineteen children they had in fear.

This last line, a facetious friend interprets to mean, that their constant fear was of a still further family increase. If so, we cannot but admit that it was well grounded. Here is also another on a little child:

Wak't to the light, she on this world did peep,
Disliked it, closed her eyes, and went to sleep.

This was written by old Miller, the author of" British Worthies," who wrote the epitaph for himself, which is on his tomb at Earth." Westminster Abbey, "here lies Fuller's

But we must return to Mr. Timbs, and the "Curiosities" of which he tells us at page 173, we find that at the Baptist Chapel, Little Wild Street, Lincoln's-Inn Fields, a sermon is annually preached in commemora tion of the Great Storm, of November 26, 1703. The following account of the damage done, on that occasion, gives a terrible idea of its power:

In London alone, more than 800 houses were laid in ruins, and 2,000 stacks of chimneys thrown down. In the country, upwards of 400 windmills were either blown down or took fire, by the violence with which their sails were blown round by the wind. In the New Forest, 4,000 trees were blown down, and more than 19,000 in the same state were counted in the County of Kent. On the sea, the ravages of this frightful storm were yet more distressing: 15 ships of the Royal Navy, and more than 300 merchant vessels, were lost, with upwards of 6,000 British seamen. The Eddystone Lighthouse, with its ingenious architect, Mr. Winstanley, was totally destroyed. The Bishop of Bath and Wells, and his lady, were killed by the falling of their palace. The sister of the Bishop of London, and many others, lost their

lives.

This annual custom has been observed upwards of a century. The chapel is built upon the site of Wild House and Gardens, the mansion of the son of Sir Humphrey Wild, Lord Mayor of London, in 1608. It was subsequently let. Ronquillo, the Spanish Ambassador, lived here in the time of Charles the II. and James II.; and in the anti

popish riots of the latter reign, the house was sacked by the mob, and the Ambassador compelled

to make his escape at a back door.

We must not leave the subject of churches without calling our readers' attention to Mr. Timbs' account of the New Greek Church in London Wall; we have not space to extract the description, but we notice that it cost £10,000, and yet the number of Greeks resident in London, at the date of its opening, was not more than 220, giving an average subscription of more than £40 per head for each hearer. In this instance, at any rate,

THERE are readers of poetry to whose taste it is indispensable that the poet should be all passion, and should avoid reflection with scrupulous aversion. They are for a maximum of the sensational, the eventful, the exciting; but if the reflective is to be introduced at all, they pray for a minimum of that. You may drench them, if you please, with stimulants of treble X power; but sedatives you must administer only in a globu- | lar dose, in driblets of homoeopathic quantity, and most diluted quality. Byron's Corsair scenes they can delight in; Scott's battle melées and weird metrical tales they can get by heart; but Wordsworth's philosophic meditations, or Henry Taylor's pensive moods, they cannot away with. To such readers, the poetry of Mr. Monckton Milnes is, in effect, no poetry at all.

It is not our cue to revive the much-vexed question of strife between the sensational and the meditative, between the passionate and the reflective schools of song. We will go along with the petitioners for action and passion, in their admiration of the poets they chiefly affect; yet will we claim a right to apply the consecrated title of poet to such a man as Wordsworth, and of poetry to such verses as those of Richard Monckton Milnes. This premised, we readily allow that the latter gentleman would come nearer to our ideal of poetical genius, and would be not only more widely honored in his vocation but more loyal to its behests, were his reflective tendencies less "pronounced," and his records of the emotional and the impulsive more frequent and emphatic. His narrative, it has been objected-and the objection is valid-is wanting in rapidity and action; there is a monotony and sluggishness about it; the train by which we travel on his line is never an express-train; the stations at which he pauses so many, as to make impatient souls denounce the whole thing as stationary. The late D. M. Moir expressed, probably, the judgment of the many when, in ascribing to this poet very considerable elegance and

taste, a "philosophic sentiment and a graceful tenderness," he remarked the deficiency in individuality and power, and defined his characteristic to consist in the pervading element of repose.

"His sunset has no clouds, and his morning no breeze. From his lack of constructiveness, and dramatic passion, he appears to most advantage in his serious, his sentimental, and descriptive sketches, many of which are fine and striking, although he often mars the general effect by unnecessary analyses." Mr. Milnes has propounded his views of the poet's vocation, in a passage which contends that to interest or benefit us, poetry must be reflective, sentimental, subjective; must accord with the conscious, analytical spirit of present men; must be deeper than description, more lasting than passion, more earnest than pleasure; and must help the mind of man out of the struggles and entanglements of life. Bon Gaultier has seized upon this passage in one of his shrewd and vivacious criticisms, and while assenting to the power and privilege thus ascribed to poetry, of helping the mind of man out of life's labyrinthine trials, bas reminded the poet that it does so, precisely because it is vivid in description, profound in passion, and productive of earnest enjoyment"-which qualities when it wants, it is naught. For it is not, argues the critic, by putting sage aphorisms, or the "solemn facts of truth," into smooth couplets, that any writer will help the mind of man out of these entanglements and struggles. "We have too much reflection, and too many facts, thrust upon us every day of our lives. What we want is imagination and impulse." With this will cordially agree all those who believe, with the critic, that Milnes's principle in poetry is a bad one-that his grand mistake is the making reflection predominate over passion; that we do not, in fine, go to poetry either for our facts or our metaphysics, but to hear the voice of the "heart speaking out in the language of universal truth," and "interfusing the inanimate objects of nature with